This week I’m thinking about three walks. I’ll talk about them in reverse chronological order.

The First Walk
On Tuesday I was walking the dog and listening to a talk by Gil Fronsdal, which he had given two days earlier. Gil prefaced it by saying that it would be a challenging talk, and it was clear he was going to address questions of citizenship and activism in the wake of the killing of Alex Pretti in Minneapolis.

I was struck by a Buddhist poem Gil started with:

Others will be cruel. We will not be cruel.
Others will be violent. We will not be violent.
Others will kill. We will not kill.
Others will steal. We will not steal.
Others will engage in sexual misconduct. We will not engage in sexual misconduct.
Others will lie. We will not lie.
Others will speak divisively. We will not speak divisively.
Others will speak harshly. We will not speak harshly.
Others will speak pointlessly. We will not speak pointlessly.
Others will be avaricious. We will not be avaricious.
Others will have hatred. We will not have hatred

This “poem” is actually a section of a chant drawn from the Sallekha Sutta of the Pali canon. There are 44 total lines, and in the ritual Gil discussed (but didn’t actually do on this recording), it is recited four times successively.

As I listened to this litany, my mind went to a (much shorter) parallel from our own tradition, the prayer of Rabbi Nehunia ben HaKanah, which is traditionally recited today upon completing the study of a tractate of Talmud:

I rise early, and they rise early. I rise early to pursue matters of Torah, and they rise early to pursue frivolous matters. I toil and they toil. I toil and receive a reward, and they toil and do not receive a reward. I run and they run. I run to the life of the World-to-Come and they run to the pit of destruction.

There are obvious differences, of course. But in both cases, what I sense is a kind of affirmation in the face of struggle: We can’t control what other people will do, but we can take responsibility for our own actions—even if great forces stand against us. We have faith in our teachings, our practice, our way of living.

The Second Walk
On Sunday I went with my cousin to a march in downtown Chicago. This was the day after Alex Pretti was killed, and I felt a need and desire to join others and make my own voice heard.

The rally was organized by several groups, not all of whom I necessarily identify with. But, to paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld perhaps, sometimes you go to the protest with the coalition you have. In the crowd of several thousand people, I could see a wide range of signs and sentiments. Some were mournful (pictures/names of Pretti, Renee Good, and others who have died or been abused by federal agents in the last year). Some invoked the American revolution (“no kings,” “don’t tread on me”). Some expressed anger and even rage (there was a lot of f*ck ICE). (I also feel a need to share here that the only foreign affairs issue I heard mentioned at the rally came in a chant: “From Minneapolis to Palestine, occupation is a crime.”)

I wore an American flag—literally. I tied it with some rope and donned it like a cape. Normally this is the flag I put up in front of our house on national holidays, and it’s a special flag for me: I received it when I became an Eagle Scout nearly 40 years ago and it had been flown over the U.S. Capitol before that. As I looked around, I observed that virtually the only other American flags I saw were upside-down ones held on flagpoles.

This reflected my experience of a lot of the tone of this particular rally. Unlike the ‘No Kings’ protests last fall, where organizers made a point to encourage people to bring and wear the Stars and Stripes, this one seemed to be more about expressing anger than inspiring a shared vision of the future. I say that without judgment—people are going to feel what they’re going to feel, and undoubtedly a lot of people were understandably experiencing a great deal of fear. I certainly had my own fears, and others were undoubtedly, and understandably, more afraid than me. I believe that for some, that manifested in anger. But my choice to wear a flag was quite deliberate, and I found myself wishing that there had been some more flag-wearers there too.

The Third Walk
The earliest of the three walks on my mind happened not this week, but over 3,000 years ago. It is, of course, our ancestors’ walk through the Sea—which I suspect I am not alone in thinking about in light of this week’s events.

Commenting on both their journey through the parted waters and on the Torah’s description of the Israelites’ constant accompaniment by “a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night,” Rabbi Mordechai Yosef Leiner offers the following in his Mei Hashiloach:

The pillar of cloud signifies Awe (Yirah), and the pillar of fire signifies Confidence/Trust (Bitachon). Sometimes a person feels great security and inner strength—this is the aspect of “Day.” In such a state, one must introduce the attribute of Awe. At other times, a person feels excessive fear—the aspect of “Night.” Then, one must strengthen their spirit with trust in the Holy One. This is the meaning of: “With a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night….” This is why it is written that the Israelites went “on dry land in the midst of the sea,” (Exodus 14:29) and elsewhere “in the midst of the sea on dry land” (Exodus 14:22). The Sea signifies Awe, while the Dry Land signifies Strength and Security. The essence of this strength is the Torah, which is the stronghold of Israel.

I hear in these words a deep and challenging teaching—for me, and I think for all of us. Part of our human condition is that we experience strong emotions: Joy, delight, ecstasy; sadness and melancholy; self-righteousness and anger, among many others. Fear is, perhaps, unique among these in the ways it can overtake us and short-circuit the connections between our heart-minds and our limbs. It can lead us to feel disempowered and immobilized. It can also lead us to rage and violence—whether we are government officials (who, as authorized agents of state violence, must, according to our tradition, be held to a higher standard than regular folks) or ‘merely’ human beings created in the Divine image.

Unlike Buddhism, Judaism is not a pacifist tradition. I don’t want to leave the impression that I’m conflating the two. But I know that for me, and I hope for you and all of us, this is a moment to call upon our spiritual practices to help us stay grounded, to mindfully touch our fears rather than try to force them away, and to choose responses grounded in trust, faith, and love. That is what our ancestors did when they crossed through the sea. May we walk together in their footsteps.

For Reflection & Conversation

• What, if anything, is making you fearful these days? What, if anything, is grounding you in trust?
• What represents the sea for you these days? How, if at all, have you found Jewish spiritual practice to be a source of strength as you walk through it?